


junk

by lennonbum



Category: Trainspotting (1996)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Underage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-24 15:09:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6157653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lennonbum/pseuds/lennonbum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Personality, I mean that's what counts, right? That's what keeps a relationship going through the years. Like heroin, I mean, heroin's got a great fucking personality."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Home wasn’t a place.

 

Home wasn’t some awful flat that smelled of stained carpet. Home wasn’t Swanney’s crackhouse. Home wasn’t the streets that they padded along, minds numb, weak and feeble from the smack and the false joy it gave them. Home was the smack itself, nothing more. 

Home was the feeling of much deserved respite, sprawled out upon that aforementioned stained carpet, its unflattering green hues cushioning Mark Renton’s head. His eyes opened and closed in a zombie-like motion, seeing nothing but the bug-filled ceiling lamp above him, and, some few seconds later, the wavering image of Sick Boy, smirking down at him. 

“It’s early,” snorted he. “—already cooking up?” 

Renton grunted, rolling onto his side, his jaw slack and open wide. 

“Don’t take that tone with me.” Sick Boy poked, rummaging around the kitchen. Renton couldn’t even begin to think what he was looking for in there. “Wha’reyedoin’?” called Renton, squinting as Sick Boy flicked on the lights. 

“Just been with some lass,” crooned Sick Boy, lighting up a cigarette and puffing at it. “—she was alright, Rents, but she threw me out just now. Came here to see ya, and how’d you greet me? You’re definitely not a host with the most…” Renton interrupted his friend’s snarky crabbing with an irritated groan, raking himself up off the floor and sliding down onto his mattress instead, blue eyes flitting over to the center of the room where he spied a used spoon, probably from the night before. His heart skipped a beat.

“Got any black bun? Mince and tatties? I’m starved!” the white-haired man rambled on, digging through the cupboards. “What do you think?” Renton remarked, sitting upright with some trouble. Sick Boy murmured something under his breath that Renton couldn’t quite decipher. He made his way over to Renton’s mattress, and plopped down beside him. “You alone in here?” Renton nodded, tapping his foot against the carpet. 

“Where’s everyone, then?” 

Renton’s brain felt like it sputtered and lost all power. He hardly felt up to answering questions, especially not from Sick Boy. “Dunno. Woke up all by myself.” Sick Boy nodded, listening. “Aye? Well, then. What say we do today, eh?” Renton rubbed his thumbs into his eyelids. “I want to sleep, Sickie.” Sick Boy chortled, slinging a harsh arm around the slighter man’s shoulders. “Aw, no, mate! C’mon, let’s go out. Grab Tom and Spud and get smashed.” The plan sounded absolutely horrendous, Renton thought to himself, and leaned his head against Sick Boy’s shoulder, almost in defeat.

“Not feeling too well?” Sick Boy inquired, at which Renton merely grunted once again. “Oh, get up, you great lug. You’ll feel better once we get downtown, warm your bones with some drinks, aye?” Renton felt the mattress shift beneath him as Sick Boy stood and made his way for the door. “See you downstairs, yeah? Don’t take your time.”

As the door shut behind Sick Boy, Mark Renton took all of five minutes to stare lifelessly at the wall in front of him, mouth slightly agape, becoming entirely lost in his own thoughts. So lost, that he hardly realized Sick Boy’s presence, his hot breath on the back of his neck. “Wake up, sunshine. Let’s go.”

The local pub was a shithole Renton frequented far too often. 

Sick Boy had collected Spud and Tommy along the way, and Begbie was already waiting for them upon their arrival, seated in the back booth, dressed like a poorly-aging, “still-hip” father from ten years prior, a cigarette perched between his lips. They greeted one another with loud bellows of “oi mate” and “how’s by ya,” and amidst all the racket, Renton silently slid into the booth and lit a cigarette of his own. Sick Boy took his place beside him, his shoulder smacking square into Renton’s, making the older of the two flinch, throwing a nasty side-eye at the blond.

“Wouldja quit being so that way?” Sick Boy chided, nudging Renton once again. Renton swatted at him, glancing up only when Spud returned with drinks for the lot of them. “I tell ya,” Spud began, taking a seat between Begbie and Tommy. “—this is the third interview I’ve bombed.” Begbie shrugged and pointed his cigarette at him. “That’s cos you’re fuck ugly.” Spud hardly seemed wounded by this.

The men chattered on. Renton found himself utterly unamused, as if reality was finally settling around him like rubble after a hurricane. Little outings like these normally brought him happiness, if only for a while, and what made things so much worse was that Sick Boy kept glancing over at him.

“Stop,” Renton scoffed when he caught Sick Boy at it again. “—stop looking at me.” 

“You’re too crabby today.” Sick Boy grimaced, gulping down the last of his beer, and tapping the glass on the table. “I am not,” Renton insisted, brow furrowed. “I’m tired, ya fucking numpty.” He felt Sick Boy’s eyes linger on him, which made his lower lip quiver as rage rose in his chest. “Shut ya geggie. I coulda left ya half-alive, lying on the floor.” 

Renton shoved him out of the booth, elbowing him hard in the bicep. Sick Boy tumbled to the floor, and glowered up at Renton. “Fuck you, Rents, you’ve it coming.” The elder stood. “Have I?” he spat, striding past Sick Boy and out of the pub. 

Sick Boy must’ve made it to his feet rather quickly, because within minutes, he was chasing Renton down the street.


	2. Chapter 2

Sick Boy showed little mercy. Soon enough Renton’s blood coalesced with the vomit and other unidentifiable fluids of the streets, and even then Sick Boy ceased not. 

Renton feigned unconsciousness, his muscles loosening. Sick Boy took one last jab at Renton’s jaw before he noticed the other man’s stillness. He clapped a hand to his cheek, jostling his head this way and that. “Get up,” he panted. “—you daft sod. Get up.” Renton lazily opened one eye, then the other, and Sick Boy grimaced, yanking him up by the arm. “You deserved every second of that,” he sneered, glancing hastily in Renton’s direction. 

Renton said nothing, only dabbed at his bleeding nose with the sleeve of his faux suede jacket. “Ya know?” Sick Boy jeered on. “You deserved it! You ought not to be such a fucking prick, like. Swear, I’d grind ya into the ground a second time if ya weren’t half-dead already.” Mark Renton remained silent. “You take hits like a damn bird, Rents. You can’t fight back—“ 

Just then, Renton made an abrupt turn left, down a much darker street, and Sick Boy followed. “Home’s this way, ya bampot!” he called after him. “I know where I’m fucking going,” Renton insisted, spitting the stale, cigarette-y taste in his mouth onto the ground. “I don’t think ya do.”

Truth be told, Mark Renton hadn’t the faintest clue where he was headed. He could stir the next morning on some piss-stained park bench, feeling gutted and lost, it’d happened before. All he could be bothered with that moment was the blood on his face and how bad it stung. Sick Boy’s voice seemed to fade into the night around them, echoing behind Renton as he walked away.

_Idon’thinkyadoIdon’thinkyadoIdon’tthink_

It was driving Renton up the wall. Sick Boy’s remark became louder, softer, and all of the sudden it was right in his ear. Renton turned, hands balled into fists, and swung. “Shut up!” When he saw no one before him, just an empty street, a light flickering at the end of it, Renton immediately felt nauseous in the worst possible way. He couldn’t quite pinpoint what was making him feel this way. Maybe it was all just from the one bad hit he’d taken mere hours earlier. Maybe—

“—you’re just too stressed out, eh?” 

Renton was back on his mattress, sweating like a hog. Sick Boy was crouched beside him once again, mischievous blue eyes flitting over him, studying him. “What,” Mark began, attempting to sit up, only to be nudged back down. “Shh, now. Somethin’’s up with ya.” Sick Boy cooed. “Hit ya too hard, like.” 

Suddenly, the anger from the previous evening came rushing back to Renton. “Why the fuck did you do that?” he demanded, voice hoarse. “Too many drinks, too much going on. You got snarky with me so I pounded your brains in. Sorry for that, mate. Ya need to rest up, aye? You were right all along. Shouldn’t have brought ya out.” Renton fixed his eyes on the ceiling, deciding that this was some wild dream because Sick Boy would never apologize, otherwise. Either way, it _felt_ real, so Renton thought not to question it for the time being. He was too tired.

Only sleeping was far too difficult with Sick Boy watching him as if he were ready to devour him whole.

“You’re lookin’ at me again,” Renton said weakly. Sick Boy chuckled, resting a hand upon Renton’s shoulder, so gentle that it made Renton want to knock him off. Sick Boy would never do that. This was a dream. 

Then, something treacherous, something unbelievable happened. Sick Boy draped an arm across Renton’s torso and perched his chin on the top of his head. “Go on, now,” Renton groaned, turning his back to Sick Boy. “Nah. Gonna watch you real close, like, so you don’t pop off while you’re out.” Words couldn’t possibly describe the extremity of displeasure Renton felt when Sick Boy said this, but when Sick Boy had a plan, there was next to nothing one could do to sway him out of it. So, Mark Renton said nothing.

 

Renton woke some few hours later. He was becoming too hot beneath his blanket, and from Sick Boy running a hand up and down his bare side, and— 

“What the _fuck_?” 

Sick Boy immediately retracted, looking only slightly spurned. “I hadn’t been doing ‘at the whole time, Rents, aye? I was just making sure you weren’t cold, like.” Renton sat up, rubbing his eyes, the events of the past two days overwhelming him all at once. He thought of Diane, of Baby Dawn, of his parents, and of course, of Sick Boy. Was all this some kind of coping method for him, after what happened to Dawn?

“I’m not like that, I swear it,” Sick Boy continued. Renton shook his head, and stood.

“Whatever, I’m cooking up.”


	3. Chapter 3

First the loss of Dawn, and then the loss of Tommy only made matters worse. Everyone took a big step back to square one. Renton experienced another “final hit,” and another, and another. 

“How’d it feel to be on the brink of death?” 

Begbie’d gone out for the first time in weeks, maybe months. It was just Sick Boy and Renton in the flat. They’d gone from talking about Tommy and Lizzy’s porno, to Iggy Pop, then to death. 

“It didn’t _feel_ like _anything._ ” Renton frowned, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “I don’t think this is all that appropriate, Simon, considering…” Sick Boy cocked his head to one side, almost leaning it on Renton’s shoulder. _Almost._

The two passed a cigarette back and forth until it was nothing but a still-warm butt. Sick Boy flicked it across the room and lit up another, and the process began again. Renton thought about how surreal it was, how different they’d become since they first met, in a pub _(where else?)_ where Sick Boy had a few girls flirting with him, and Renton was keeping to himself in a corner. They ran into one another when Sick Boy vomited on Renton, while they were both going back to the bar for refills. Sick Boy remembered the day fondly; Renton did not.

Now, Sick Boy was a self-proclaimed “pimp” who could do “just about anything.” Renton was still an introverted sloth, only now he’d landed a job and an actual place to live. 

“Begbie hates fags?” Sick Boy chortled as Renton filled him in on what exactly happened the night Begbie took a certain girl home. “Begbie hates everyone but himself,” Renton snorted, swallowing a mouthful of cold, unforgiving liquid. “—but aye. He does.” Sick Boy shook his head, guffawing between drags of his cigarette. “Shame.”

“Why’s ‘at a shame?” Renton inquired, glancing over at Sick Boy.

“Dunno, mate. Just, don’t knock it till you try it, eh?” 

“He _did_ try it,” Renton reminded him with a distant smirk. “—have you?” He could hardly believe he was actually having this conversation, with _Sick Boy,_ of all people. It had to have been the drinks.

“Once.” Sick Boy nodded, eyes glossed over and a faint smile on his face. “I was only eighteen, man. I was just curious, like.” Renton listened, nodding. “I never said I had any problem with it, aye. Begbie does. I don’t.” Oh, god, it _really_ must have been the drinks. Sick Boy’s eyes met Renton’s. “Hm. Have _you_?” 

Renton nearly blushed at the question, and shook his head. “No.” 

Something flickered in Sick Boy’s eyes. Something Renton wasn’t quite sure if he liked or not. “Have you ever thought about it?” Renton, at this point, was avoiding Sick Boy’s gaze. “Well, I dunno. Sort of. I imagine it’s quite different from, y’know,” Sick Boy shook his head. “It’s not.” At last, Renton met eyes with Sick Boy. “Want me to show ya?” 

Renton’s mind went blank. He was absolutely positive he wanted nothing serious to do with Diane, but even still, this would break her heart. _That doesn’t matter,_ he tried to tell himself. He was not in love with Diane. He couldn’t be, and so he wasn’t. He could do as he very well pleased. Aside from Diane, though, was the innate fear of trying such a thing. 

“Aye. But make it really quick.” 

Renton regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. What if it was unbearable? 

The kiss that Sick Boy gave him made Renton feel as if he’d disintegrate. Sick Boy’s arms engulfed him, his tongue explored his mouth, and Renton felt almost refreshed. He hadn’t felt anything _new_ in so long. He found himself wanting more, found it so hard to resist, found _Sick Boy_ so hard to resist. Mark Renton was thoroughly disgusted with himself.

Sick Boy numbed Renton’s thoughts with warm, wet kisses all over his face and neck, and as Renton continually tried to let his mind wander, he couldn’t avoid that this was real, that Sick Boy was making love to him. “I’m gonna have to stretch ya a little, or I think it’ll hurt too bad.” Renton blinked, knowing exactly what Sick Boy meant, but dumbfounded, nonetheless. He titled his head back against the pillows, feeling Sick Boy’s hands explore him as he deprived him of his clothes. 

Renton’s face flushed. Sick Boy’d never seen him naked, and now that he had, Renton felt particularly exposed. Sick Boy brushed the back of his hand against Renton’s cheek. “Don’t be embarrassed, aye? You’re cute as can be.” Feeling only slightly less squeamish, Renton relaxed into Sick Boy’s touch. 

Sick Boy’s fingers inside of him felt like nothing he’d ever felt before. It was the weirdest blend of discomfort and pleasure at the same time, and he was half-terrified to take his cock. Sick Boy must’ve picked up that much, because he was being rather gentle, curling his fingers softly inside of Renton, keeping his eyes on him. 

It wasn’t nearly as horrible as Renton had anticipated. Within minutes, Sick Boy was fucking him steadily, hands pressed firmly against Renton’s shoulders, holding him in place. “Mm, Rents, you feel so good around my cock. _Please_ tell me we can do this again.” Renton nodded, babbling incoherently as Sick Boy fucked him senseless. He reached a hand down and stroked himself, feeling his own climax rise in his stomach. “Ah—“ he gasped, and Sick Boy half-moaned, half-laughed above him. “That’s so hot, Rents. Keep doing that. I’m gonna come.” 

Renton fisted himself vigorously as Sick Boy filled him, and when he came, he could’ve sworn Sick Boy moaned even louder than him. Renton’s chest heaved as Sick Boy pounded into him, desperate for release. Feeling him come into him was even stranger than being fingered for the first time, but Renton couldn’t be bothered by it. 

Sick Boy collapsed on top of Renton, their chests sticky and damp with sweat. Renton felt him press a kiss to his neck, and just that tiny gesture made him feel like his heart would stop. He couldn’t _love_ Sick Boy, and Sick Boy could never love him. He thought that much to be true. 

They severed when they heard Begbie enter the flat.


	4. Chapter 4

Sick Boy continued to see other people. Mark Renton pretended that it didn’t bother him, for their relationship (if one could call it such) was a no-strings-attached situation entirely. They fucked only when Sick Boy hadn’t anyone else to take to bed, which, of course, was not often. 

Spud knew. And what made that so much worse was that _Renton knew_ that Spud knew. Still, like the mate he was, Spud said nothing of it. Renton figured that, as long as Begbie was oblivious, any and all turmoil could be avoided. He was wrong.

“What’s there to know?” Sick Boy asked, his mouth full, when Renton informed him of Spud’s awareness. “About you and me. About us.” Sick Boy shrugged. “We never said anything about that.” Renton turned around to face Sick Boy, who took up the entire sofa, leaving him sitting cross-legged on the floor. “But we—“ 

“I know what we did, Rents,” Sick Boy exhaled. “—but I just said I’d _show_ ya.” Renton felt slightly rebuffed. “You begged me to do it with you again, you fuckin’ roaster! You’re talking mince, Simon.” At this point, Renton was almost positive he’d yet again stirred up the hyper-masculine urge to brawl inside of Sick Boy. “We’re shite for each other, ya know?” Sick Boy growled, kicking Renton in the back of the head.

“Ya bassa,” Renton hissed, no longer facing Sick Boy. “I ought to kick your good-for-nothing arse out of my flat. _My_ flat, Sickie,” 

“Try it, mate. I’m ‘arder to get rid of than fucking cockroaches.” 

With that, Sick Boy flung his jacket over his shoulders and was out the door. Renton wilted, leaning against the now unoccupied sofa and sighed, because Sick Boy was right about everything. About how shite they were for one another, about how difficult it’d be to have his flat to himself ever again, about how Renton expected too much altogether. 

Begbie came home some few hours later, and was bad company as usual. 

“You can bet your arse I’m bloody _careful_ who I pick up nowadays,” he gruffed, smoking a cigarette. “—I’d never fuck a bloke. Not even a bloke in a wig and knickers.” Renton half-listened as he washed the dishes— someone had to, and if Begbie wouldn’t, and if Sick Boy _definitely_ wouldn’t, that left him.

“It isn’t all that bad,” he said, without thinking. “You _what_?” Begbie spat, and Renton knew when he heard the slightly older fellow slam down his beer can and stand from the sofa that he was in for a rather unpleasant experience. 

“Are you a queer?” Begbie demanded. Renton figured it wouldn’t be long before Begbie withdrew his pocketknife, of which he was so proud. “No, I’m not,” Renton assured cooly. Begbie knocked a bowl out of Renton’s hands, sending it crashing to the floor. “You screw around with boys, Renton? You trying to make a bloody joke of me?” 

Renton was thoroughly upset about the broken dish.

“No, I don’t.” he answered, and Begbie’s face burned a bright, hateful red. “How’dya know _it’s not all that bad_ , then, eh? You’re a fucking queer, Rents, isn’t that right?” Renton shook his head, wondering when Sick Boy would get back to the flat. He’d likely intervene, and get Begbie off his back.

“No,” Renton gulped, back pressed against the counter as Begbie pursued him. “—but if you don’t let me alone right this instant, I’m kicking you out.” Begbie had the face of a complete and utter madman, Renton thought, and when he shoved him to the ground and went back to his football game, Renton wondered just what made him so angry all the time. 

“Oi, oi,” Sick Boy chirped, swinging back into the flat with an annoying sort of exuberance. “Yikes. Who’d you lay that’s got you so hopped up?” Begbie snickered, necking the last of his beer. “A redhead, Franco! One of those rich hookers, like.” The blond slumped down into an armchair and craned his neck around to Renton, still sitting rather sullenly on the kitchen floor amidst little pieces of broken ceramic. 

“Rent-Boy,” Sick Boy lilted, nudging him with his foot. “—lookin’ a little shady.” 

“Aye, well,” Renton grimaced, getting to his feet to clean up the mess. “—had to stay in and wash dishes and have my arse chewed by the slimy sod in my living room.” Sick Boy flinched. “Christ, sorry. You could’ve come along.” Renton tossed the pieces into the garbage can. “What makes you think I’d like to have done that, eh?” 

 

That night, Mark Renton envied all that slept well. He’d never been so desperate for sleep in his life. Nestled between the calves of Begbie and Sick Boy, Renton was trapped. He couldn’t get up to go have a smoke, he’d surely wake one or, god forbid, both of them. 

Because of this, he entered a half-asleep, half-awake sort of state, similar to the sick he experienced whilst coming off of smack. Images of Dawn, rotting in her crib, flashed in his mind. The feeling of Sick Boy against him, taking him, whispering lies into his ear. Smiling demonically at him. Begbie’s rage. 

When Renton stirred the next morning, he was alone.


	5. Chapter 5

Weeks passed and Sick Boy disappeared and reappeared as usual. The last time Renton had seen him, he was going off about Pussy Galore and how Dr.No wasn’t nearly as thrilling as Goldfinger, and then he was out the door once again.

Only this time, Sick Boy had been gone for a week and a half. 

“He never stays out this long,” Spud thought aloud. “—I get that he’s basically a drifter ’n all, but he could call. He could tell us beforehand where he’s headed.” As much as Renton loved Spud, as much as he appreciated his company, the man had no off-switch, no center of emotion. He was either bouncing off the walls happy, curled up in a corner mourning, or worrying to the point it drove not only himself but the people around him absolutely mad. That’s why he did the junk— _“for his anxiety.”_

“He’ll be back.” Renton assured cooly. 

In the time that Sick Boy had been away, Spud and Renton spent a few nights together, initially just to watch footy and have a couple beers. Spud had one too many and started spilling his heart and soul to a still-sober Renton, who immediately pitied his friend and felt guilty that he’d kept so much bottled up. The night ended much similarly to one Renton might have spent alone with Sick Boy. 

Spud didn’t seem to remember much or any of it, though, which Renton considered a blessing. 

 

Sick Boy returned Renton sleeping on the sofa, alone in the flat. He tried not to wake him, but ultimately did. Renton, though puffy-eyed and still half-asleep, stood up and struck Sick Boy hard across the face.

“Fuck was that for?” hissed the white-haired man, backing against the wall. 

“For being a lying fucking bastard, you daft cunt! I was worried about you, for god’s sake, and where were you, eh?” Sick Boy opened his mouth to speak, but was immediately silenced by Renton’s rage. “—Probably off with some lass you found on the street, Simon! I swear on my _life_ , I fucking _babysat_ Spud and had to put up with Begbie threatening to bash my brains in, since I’m such a fag, yeah? _Christ_ , Sickie.” 

Sick Boy, for once, appeared to have nothing to say, his mouth hanging slightly open, his face blank and drained of emotion. “I already put your things together,” Renton told him, softly, lighting a cigarette. “—’s’all in a case on the bed.” 

“You’re kickin’ me out?” Sick Boy choked, nearly gasping. 

“Yeah, I am,” said Renton, eyes on the floor. “—it’s quite clear you’ve got plenty of homes away from home, eh? I’m finished with your shite. Leave.” 

Sick Boy stayed put, his back against the wall, staring into space. Renton sighed, and turned to face him “Simon, _leave_.” 

“I love you, Mark.” Sick Boy admitted, and Renton was sure, at this point, that this whole thing just had to be another hallucination. “I’m sorry for leavin’ you, for bein’ a bastard, Rents, I was just scared. After we fucked that one time I just got this feeling that I really might _care_ about ya, and that scared the hell outta me, so I kept leavin’. The truth is, though, I wanna be here with ya, I just don’t know how.” 

Mark Renton, who had felt next to nothing up until this very moment, turned to face Sick Boy.   
“I don’t believe it,” he stammered, sitting back down on the couch, flicking his still-burning cigarette into an ashtray to his left. Sick Boy took a seat beside him, slinking a cautious arm around Renton’s shoulder. “I mean it.” Sick Boy assured.

Renton glanced at Sick Boy, who took hold of his jaw and pulled him close, kissing him hard, ceaselessly, holding their bodies together. “I’m sorry,” Sick Boy said against Renton’s mouth, and Renton, who’d never had what one would call a _real_ kiss, a passionate sort of one, just nodded, a firm hand on Sick Boy’s shoulder, holding him in place. 

Sick Boy pulled away, and Renton made a soft noise. “Come back,” he managed, almost loathing himself for forgiving so quickly. Sick Boy only threw him a wink and left the room as Begbie entered it, appearing cross as usual. “Oi, Franco,” Renton chided, tossing an empty beer can across the room. “—why don’t ya go out tonight? I’ve got the dishes. You seem a bit, er, tense, mate. Go on. It’s probably best I be all by my lonesome.” 

As soon as Begbie left, Sick Boy reentered the room, and smirked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is so bad, aaaaah. but anyway, don't get your hopes up for these two. bad things are in store for them.

**Author's Note:**

> ok, hi! this is my first trainspotting fic, & i'm way excited to get it all finished! fluff and smut and violence and the shit you sinners love. enjoy!!
> 
> ALSO- i've been so, unbelievably enthralled by mark renton lately, and i just wanna keep writing him. so, if anybody would be interested in roleplay, let me know :-)


End file.
